


Eloquence

by Rosslyn



Series: Choice and Eloquence [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Blood Drinking, Fix-It, Liberal imagination of Vampire Powers, Light BDSM, M/M, Pining, Telepathy, blood bonds, vampire customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 06:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20403238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosslyn/pseuds/Rosslyn
Summary: Toussaint quietened down after Regis left. In retrospect, he should have noticed it was too quiet two months earlier than he did.--What if "out of sight, out of mind" was just something Regis said to protect Geralt?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Do Vampires forgive and forget? I think not. Look at poor Dettlaff.

Toussaint quietened down after Regis left. In retrospect, he should have noticed it was too quiet two months earlier than he did. He should have noticed when he first rode past a remote village in the outskirts of Toussaint, where he briefly saw a yellowed contract half pinned to the noticeboard, declaring in large scribbled runes ‘WITCHER SERVICE NO LONGER NEEDED’. From the faded ink beneath, he gathered the contract had been about a Katakan, or a Fleder, and fool was the person who thought it was fine to let a vampire have a free run at his animals, but Geralt was not in the business to judge. A few years earlier he might have tried to talk to the contract issuer to see if a few more coins could be made after all, but after Corvo Bianco, his stomach no longer relied on early morning fishing trips to stay full. Geralt was thankful for that, he truly was: even if sometimes he missed the spontaneity of the catch.

Although he had been uncertain when Regis asked him about retirement, the answer revealed itself merely weeks after his dear vampire friend’s departure. Dandelion’s visit was a pleasant surprise, but he soon was summoned to the Ducal Palace and Geralt decided the safest place for him to be was with Roach on the roadside again lest he is accosted with more doublets and formal banquets. Thus he returned to the path: roaming endlessly in the Toussaint countryside, clearing out cellars for distressed vintners, saving hopeless knight errants, perfecting his dance of swords when archespores thrust suddenly from the earth. News of Dandelion and Annarietta’s rekindled flame reached him via the taverns, and Geralt felt glad for his friend: yet he did not visit Beauclair.

Simple oversight.

When the realisation hit him, it was not unlike being hit by an Earth Elemental, mostly because he could hear Lambert’s obnoxious voice yelling at him via bold angry runes in the letter: _WHAT THE FUCK Geralt_, Lambert wrote, _What did you do in Toussaint? Did you kill their pack leader or something you weird fuck because the vampires are migrating en-mass to the south, and WE ARE HAVING AN EPIDEMIC_, (triple underlines), _There’s not enough coins in the world for me to deal with this alone, SO YOU BETTER GET YOUR ASSES DOWN TO FEN ASPRA WITH <strike>10</strike> <strike>50</strike> 200 BOTTLES OF THAT DUCAL WINE —_

Geralt stared at the parchment. His hands were shaking minutely, and the nagging feeling he had at the pit of his stomach which he attributed to choices over retirement from the Path turned into stone-cold dread. Then he rode to Beauclair, and looked around; the city was still brimming with merchants, vintners, peasants, townsmen, in all manners of bright clothing, but —

All the mysterious hooded figures in the city were gone.

He should have realised two months earlier, and now he was desperately afraid he was too late.

Geralt tracked Lambert’s poorly drawn map to a place called the Bandit’s Trail, which, ominously, was devoid of bandits. The road to Fen Aspra was practically barren, with not a merchant or a wandering peasant in sight. Even the animals were quiet the closer he approached: usually signs that some greater evil lurked nearby. When Geralt finally got to the fortress, Lambert was nowhere to be seen. Quivering locals told him a Witcher had ridden out with a blonde-haired enchantress three days ago in the direction of Nilfgaard to ask for Imperial backup. Geralt would have laughed if he didn’t find the idea just as alarming as it was ludicrous.

“Where have the vampires been attacking?”

“Mostly on the road,” The Prefect said. He was a blubbering nervous wreck of a man in his forties, clearly driven to insomnia in the recent turn of events. “Folk don’t dare go out anymore… Last week six riders set out together to a nearby town, half a day yonder, and they still haven’t returned. We fear the worst… We are holed up inside, nothing goes in or out. Soon we be starving. We need noble families to open the food banks, if they can get their head out of their ass for just one minute…”

This was nothing Geralt didn’t suspect. “When did the attacks start happening?”

“About a month ago, maybe longer,” The Prefect said. “We didn’t put the two and two together until we heard about what happened in Beauclair, and thank Melitele that they don’t seem to dare to come inside the walls yet… what has the world come to! First the nonhumans, then the vampires… Nothing ever happens in Fen Aspra, apart from the family feuds…”

Geralt waved a hand impatiently. “Did anyone else arrive at this time? Did an apothecary open, or a barber?”

“Barber?” the prefect said dubiously, “Did you hear a word I just said? There are vamp — hmm,” he cocked his head, “There was some talk about a surgeon in town, who was good with herbs. He only stayed a while, though, in a cottage just over the wall; I think it’s abandoned now, more’s the pity, the vampires probably got to him — where are you going? Master Witcher!”

He had to stop and dispatch two Ekimmaras and a Fleder on the way, and night had just fallen when Geralt arrived at the cottage. The cottage did appear abandoned, but Geralt’s medallion was vibrating gently when he approached. He spotted the illusionary magic straight away, and a wave of the Eye of Nehaleni dispelled it.

The cottage was sparsely furnished. Upon realising the illusion had been broken, a lone figure struggled to get up from the bed. Geralt’s eyes quickly adjusted in the dark, and his heart clenched.

“Really ought to learn how to ask for help, Regis,” Geralt murmured. There was something blooming in his chest that he couldn’t put his finger on: stupendous relief, maybe, mixed with incandescent rage; even a nagging sense of dread and foreboding, because Regis looked even more haggard than he last saw him: there was a long scar just turning pink on the nape of his neck, which Regis tried furtively to hide.

“Geralt,” Regis breathed. His voice shook a little, and his face clouded. “Oh, my dear Geralt. You shouldn’t have come.”

“Shouldn’t I?” Geralt said, a touch too harshly even to his own ears, “‘Out of sight, out of mind?’ Did that apply to me as well?”

Regis swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking so hopelessly despaired that Geralt pained for him, “You know why I had to.”

“When this is over,” Geralt said, “We are going to have a discussion about your dangerous and frankly stupid penchant for self-sacrifices. Sit down. You look like you are about to keel over.”

Regis sat down and kept staring at Geralt as if he wasn’t certain the Witcher was real. Geralt scowled and sat down next to him on the bed. The room smelled of herbs and vague damp; Geralt tried not to think how the cemetery seemed cosier than the room they currently occupied.

“It was a futile exercise in any case,” Regis said lowly. “The need for revenge has driven the lesser vampires into bloodlust… They have not breached major human settlements yet, but I fear it might just be a matter of time before they do.”

“You should have asked for help,” Geralt said quietly. “Now tell me how I can help.”

“You cannot,” Regis said. He was clearly trying to sound light but there was coiled tension in his shoulders. “This matter is, to put crudely, quite outside the purview of humans.”

“So tell me what is going to happen,” Geralt said, watching Regis replace the illusion amulets around the front door and resisting the urge to shake the vampire by the shoulder. “Will they just keep coming? Waiting for you to tire out?”

“I have no doubt that was their intention,” Regis said. He avoided Geralt’s eyes. “But I cannot in good conscience let them follow me and leave a trail of destruction in my wake any longer.”

Geralt crossed his arms. “I’m listening.”

Regis inhaled slowly, held his breath for a long, inhuman moment, and slowly exhaled again. “The Elder and I have reached… an understanding,” he said. A haunted look crossed his features for a brief moment, almost too quick for the Witcher to catch, and Regis sighed. “We have agreed on a time and a place,” he said, with a lightness that was entirely undeserved, “when I would appear in front of my… followers, and we would settle this once and for all. No more collateral damage.”

Geralt stared. “A duel? Seriously?”

Regis ducked his head, and when he met Geralt’s eyes again, he was smiling. “A duel usually takes place between two parties,” he said, “while I imagine my followers consist of a great deal more.”

Despite himself, Geralt rolled his eyes. “Don’t get pedantic with me now, Regis,” he said, yet feeling the fight seep out of him nevertheless. “You know they are blackmailing you to give yourself up.”

“That may be so,” Regis said slowly, “Yet.”

“I thought so,” Geralt said, exasperated.

Regis smiled sadly. Geralt cast his eyes over the vampire and his surroundings: numerous wounds, old and new, not healing as fast as they should. Exhaustion was written in the vampire’s every fibre of being. There was dried blood on the floor, but human — a piece of rider gear embossed with Fen Aspra Coat of Arms lay nearby. So Regis tried to save the riders then — and probably couldn’t. Which explained the downcast shoulders — exhaustion, and guilt. Pestle and mortar. Half-empty vials of elixirs, a dead rabbit — animal blood mixed with restorative herbs. Full vials not yet taken, one vial smashed no the ground.

Geralt exhaled through his nose. A feeling of calm swept over him, like the moment in a fight when he spotted a weakness, a feint, and knew with absolute certainty what he had to do.

Regis was watching him worriedly. “Geralt?” he asked, in a small voice.

“Regis,” Geralt answered meaningfully. “When are they asking to you do this?”

Regis shook his head. “Geralt, there is no need to get involved, really,” he fretted, brows creasing, “as you can see, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself — ”

“Uh-huh,” Geralt said, “Is that why you are looking as pale as a Nilfgaardian aristocrat? Trying to blend in with the local elites?”

Regis pursed his lips. Geralt stepped closer, and Regis snapped his eyes to him, expression inscrutable.

“Do you know what I do, before a big battle?” Geralt said, soft. There was a sense of calm washing over him, nudging him forward. “I prepare. I get myself to the best state I can — and I ask for help.”

Regis clasped the strap of his bag tighter. “I — Geralt, if you are suggesting any elixirs — ”

“I can see you’ve taken all you can, and they are little help,” Geralt said. He indicated to the pinkish-white scar on Regis’s neck, and Regis instinctively pulled his collar higher. “You are not healing as fast as you should. You are not optimal. They’ve worn you down, Regis; you should have come to me months ago.” _Should have never left_, he didn’t say, but felt like the sentence hang in the air anyway.

Regis was staring at him, aghast. As usual, Regis understood what he didn’t need to say aloud.

“Geralt, I cannot,” Regis whispered. “Not after all these years.” He looked away. “And most of all, not… from you.” He swallowed again. “I won’t forgive myself.”

Geralt sighed through his nose. Regis can be exceptionally stubborn when he wanted to be, and it was fortunate that he had extraordinary patience when he needed to. “You know what I do,” He began slowly, “when I emerge from a cave of drowners and ghouls and immediately see a Leshen or a Basilisk, and my toxicity is already through the roof?”

Regis parted his mouth slightly, but Geralt ploughed on, before the vampire could best his train of thought. “I take another potion, or maybe three,” he said, and let his hand grip Regis’s shoulder. “Win the fight first. Deal with toxicity later.”

Regis remained immobile as a statue under his palm.

“You need blood to heal, Regis,” Geralt said bluntly, patiently. “I’m offering. Think of it as medication. Knowing you, I don’t think you will relapse, but even if you do, I will see to it that you come out again, just as you did last time.”

Regis stared at him with wide eyes, and after a long, indeterminate moment, let out a small incredulous sound. “My dear Geralt,” he breathed, “That was quite a speech. Did you really ride all the way to Fen Aspra just to offer me your blood?”

“Would you prefer Lambert’s?” Geralt said gruffly, and Regis smiled faintly; for a brief moment, Geralt was transported back to campfires near the cemetery and could smell Mandrake Brew in the air. Things seemed simpler then: Regis had asked about Geralt’s retirement, knowing full well that he was going to be hunted till the ends of the world when he chose to stand with Geralt over one of his own.

“Please,” Geralt said. “You need to come out of this alive.”

Regis studied the floor and said nothing.

“I can fill a cup, or mix it with a potion if you prefer,” Geralt said, “but don’t pretend that a Witcher’s blood isn’t the fastest way for you to recover right now.”

“And I recall a discussion needs to had about ‘dangerous and frankly stupid penchant for self-sacrifice,’” Regis muttered, “Geralt — ”

“I watched you die once,” Geralt cut in, harsh, and Regis flinched minutely. “I won’t allow it again. So you need to get over yourself and get better, and _fast_.”

Regis swallowed.

“Please,” Geralt murmured again. He turned to look at Regis and was distinctly aware that their shoulders were now touching. Compared to a vampire, he probably was radiating warmth like a furnace, and he did not miss the tiniest way Regis leaned towards him. Regis was still staring at him. The corner of Regis’s mouth was downturned, but his eyes looked ardent, burning with a strange fire that Geralt had not seen before. He could not put it in words. He could not put _himself_in words, in fact; Geralt suddenly realised how desperately he wished he was there for Regis after Stygga, even though he knew there was nothing that he could have done, Witcher blood or no; and this time he had led Regis to his fate and predicament again, and nearly abandoned Regis _again_—

His expression must have changed because Regis’s eyes widened, and he was now looking at him with a worried, rather than unhappy, downturn of the lips.

“Oh, my dear Geralt,” Regis sighed, sounding resigned, “As usual, your heart is entirely too big for your own good.”

Geralt snorted. Regis’s mouth twisted a bit more, briefly.

“And you give yourself entirely too little credit,” Regis murmured. Their hands were almost touching, lying side by side on the mattress, and Regis’s finger twitched; Geralt suddenly wanted nothing more than to grab the vampire’s hand and cover it with his own, but before he could move, Regis stood up.

It was clear that the Higher Vampire had seen a fair share of battle in the last few months. His clothes, though always a touch old fashioned, where always clean and presentable, and they were now torn in several places. A few scars peeked out from where Geralt could catch a glimpse of skin — scars that were healing far too slowly to be normal for Regis. His hair was even greyer than Geralt saw him last. He, however, still held himself the same way he always did: with a genteel sort of air, and when he ducked his head, he looked more like a scholar in deep thought rather than a fugitive who was being hunted every minute. At last, Regis spoke again.

“I have had many regrets in all of my years walking this earth,” Regis said softly. “Meeting you, my dear Witcher, is not one of them.” He turned to look at Geralt, and his eyes were dark as the night sky; the weight of his gaze suddenly seemed infinitely significant, and Geralt felt affixed to the bed even though he knew he was not being mesmerised. The air changed subtly around them, and Geralt’s Witcher senses picked up a tendril of danger, of power uncoiled, something dark and taut was vibrating, screaming to be let go.

“You have no idea what you are asking of me,” Regis whispered. “Truly.”

Geralt licked his lips. “Then think of it as me asking you,” he murmured.

Regis looked pained. “Geralt…” he began, but only stared, and looked utterly at loss for words.

“I don’t think you will relapse,” Geralt prodded again, in a half-hearted attempt at lightening the mood. “With all the mutations, my blood can’t possibly taste any good. You probably won’t even enjoy it.”

To his surprise, Regis barked out a laugh, but it sounded more tormented than ever. “Oh, my dear Witcher,” he said hopelessly, “On the contrary, I fear I will enjoy it entirely too much,” he lifted a hand and touched Geralt’s cheek, tenderly, achingly. “You have no idea.”

Geralt stood up, shredded his armour quickly, and crowded into Regis’s space. Regis inhaled sharply, almost involuntarily, and his eyes fluttered closed, his chest rising and falling in rapid crescendos. “You have no idea,” he repeated, low, almost inaudible if it weren’t for Geralt’s Witcher hearing.

Geralt wound a hand in Regis’s hair and pulled him close. Regis inhaled again, deeply, and held his breath for an inhumanly long while — then Geralt felt a cool set of lips against his neck. Regis didn’t bite, just gently pressed them there, and remained still for a long moment.

Geralt opened his eyes. “Oh, Regis,” he said, and suddenly understood; Regis withdrew and leaned his forehead on Geralt’s shoulder.

“Walk away, Geralt,” Regis murmured, dark and low, and a whole-body shudder ran through Geralt like a vial of Thunderbolt. “I beg you.”

Blood thudded in Geralt’s ears. Something was threatening to tear from his chest, but it wouldn’t come out as words, instead, Geralt growled, turned and pushed, forcefully, until he backed Regis unceremoniously into the bed. Regis, utterly taken by surprise, only stared up at him: the haunted look on his face lessened by degrees.

“Regis,” Geralt said, “You need to stop treating me like I would break.” He pushed him again, and Regis sat down on the bed, still looking vaguely stunned. “And most of all,” he continued, “you need to stop being stupidly noble.”

Regis’s eyebrow flew upwards, and he looked momentarily indignant. “Oh pot, kettle,” he said, “I recall it was a certain Witcher who gave up retirement and rode all the way — ”

The rest of his sentence was swallowed when Geralt crushed their mouths together. Geralt felt a pair of strong hands grapple at his hair and felt a delicious thrill at the scrape of sharp nails, and he bit Regis on the lower lip, playfully, revelling in Regis’s surprised inhale.

“And you _really_need to learn when to stop talking,” Geralt breathed, when they finally pulled apart. Regis was gazing him with that expression again, and Geralt raised an eyebrow in challenge:_ask me to walk away one more time, and I just might out of frustration_, it said.

Regis’s eyes darkened and something shifted minutely in his expression. “Are you absolutely certain,” he asked, gripping the bed so tight that Geralt could see the white of his knuckles.

“Yes,” Geralt said simply.

“Then let me demonstrate,” Regis said, voice dipping low and dangerous.

Geralt felt, rather than saw, Regis mist away; he turned around, and Regis crowded into his space immediately. Geralt smelled herbs and cinnamon, of fresh rain and moonlit earth as Regis observed him impassively, giving him one last chance to back out.

Geralt only leaned forward. He saw a flash of red in Regis’s eyes, felt a gentle hand in his hair pulling his head backwards, and a cool set of lips on the nape of his neck. A lick, then two, and suddenly he was floating upwards, away from the bed, into the infinite night sky — distantly, a thought occurred to Geralt that Regis hadn’t been lying when he said the popular culture’s representation of vampires were vastly mistaken and grossly misinterpreted. There was no pain, no sensation of being pierced, and no textbook arousal; he was…

…Wading through the stars.

_Do not mistake stars reflected in the pond for the sky_, a thought floated from his previous life to the forefront of his mind. But Geralt was certain he was looking at the sky. The constellations shifted and sparkled, and suddenly he was in the moonlight herbal garden of Corvo Bianco, and a campfire burned nearby, and the smell of Mandrake Moonshine wafted in his nose, a gentle smile, a warm laugh. He felt… safe.

Time became indeterminable and reality faded in and out. It might have been seconds, or months, or several eons; the hazy surreality only started to recede when the pressure eased from his body. Geralt thought he felt the brush of a kiss against his ear, or maybe that was part of the hallucination too, and he realised he was actually lying down. He couldn’t remember when he had done that. Regis was sitting on the far edge of the bed, head bowed and shoulder low, taking in deep, shuddering breaths.

“Hey,” Geralt said, pulling himself up, feeling slightly disorientated and not entirely certain what had transpired. His voice came out slightly hoarse.

Regis didn’t reply. From where he was sitting, however, Geralt could see the pinkish scars receding, turning white, disappearing. Whatever anti-regeneration venom Regis was subject to was countered by his blood, at least.

“I gotta say, this isn’t what I expected,” Geralt said, rubbing his neck. He felt it tentatively: it was slightly sore, but he could not feel any discernible bite marks.

Regis turned around, looking marginally more composed at least; Geralt noted with some relief that the vampire’s eyes were dry and the red in his irises had receded. “And what did you expect?” he asked, soft.

Geralt darted his eyes away in embarrassment. Regis smiled knowingly, sadly.

“Geralt,” Regis said, slow, “You know I would never impose myself on you.”

Geralt considered this. “I didn’t know you could control the effect like that,” he said. He sat forward, and forced Regis to meet his gaze. “Do you want to?”

Regis stared back at him despairingly. “The primary objective of the vampire venom is to make the victim forget the experience as not to alert everyone to our existence,” he said, diving into lecturing mode like a drowning man grasping at straws, “It’s not necessary — certainly vastly exaggerated in popular culture — to engage in intimacy; perhaps only because the encounter is made more memorable for it…” He trailed off and looked horrified at himself.

Geralt lifted an eyebrow tolerantly. “Do you want it, Regis,” he said patiently, “Because I do.”

Regis stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. “I —” he looked so lost and broken that Geralt’s heart wrenched for him. Regis kept staring at him like he was afraid Geralt would vanish into thin air.

“I — yes,” Regis whispered at last. His voice was hoarse but steady. “Yes, Geralt. I very much want to.”

They looked at each other for a long, breathless second. Geralt licked his lips. Regis’s eyes darted to his mouth immediately, and Geralt, suddenly feeling confident and mischievous the way he only did with someone he trusted, flopped back onto the bed and crossed his legs.

“Emiel,” Geralt said, a hint of a smile in his voice, “Are you embarrassed?”

Regis opened his mouth, inhaled, then closed it again. His eyes flashed at Geralt’s lazy grin, and he looked vaguely annoyed. The tense, haunted lines in his expression relaxed, and Geralt felt the air change immediately.

“Oh, I see how this is,” Regis murmured. “Were you _disappointed_?”

Geralt shrugged. It was his turn to feel vaguely caught out and embarrassed, and Regis surged at him; Geralt only had time to reflexively uncross his legs before Regis appeared in front of him nose to nose, and all Geralt could see was his own reflection in Regis’s eyes, dark as the night.

Regis gently laid a hand on Geralt’s cheek, but his face was impassive, all traces of apprehension and guilt gone, and there was something in his eyes Geralt could not put his finger on; he was fairly certain he wasn’t being mesmerised, not in the traditional — popular culture interpretation’s — sense; yet.

“Oh,” Geralt breathed, as he felt a thrumming pleasure start to build in his groins. “I didn’t know you could — ”

“There are,” Regis murmured, leaning close and smelling enticingly of herbs and moonlight, “A great many things you don’t know yet, my dear Witcher.” He nipped at Geralt’s lip, and Geralt shuddered when he felt sharp fangs graze against the corner of his mouth. Without a second’s hesitation, Geralt licked into Regis, and felt the vampire reciprocate in kind; their bodies slotted together and all traces of awkwardness bled out of Geralt. His hands wandered lower, roaming over Regis’s chest, tugging at the soft hair there and delighting in Regis’s surprised moan, and went lower still.

Suddenly his hand was caught in an iron grip, and Regis was smirking at him with burning, feverish eyes. “Oh, I think not,” Regis purred, “I wouldn’t want to disappoint, after all.”

Geralt raised an incredulous brow. “Are you serious,” he said, but Regis had already misted away; he sat up and craned his neck, but before he could discern the vampire’s whereabouts, a cold rush of air knocked him forcefully back onto the bed.

Regis rematerialised with a vial in hand. He pressed a palm against Geralt’s chest, just above his heart, and hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he said to himself, smirking at Geralt suddenly and misting away again, and Geralt sighed in frustration.

Geralt waited for a few breathes, but Regis did not reappear. He picked up the vial left on the bed and smelled olive and pine oil. He groaned.

“Come on, Regis,” he called, “Don’t make me wait all night.”

A swirl of mist billowed around his ankle. A voice, breathy, “Stand,” it said.

Geralt obeyed. The whirling mist surged upwards, enveloping around his torso, and Geralt shuddered, “Regis —”

The rush of air was stronger this time, almost knocked the wind out of him as Geralt slammed back into a wall. Regis appeared in front of him, close, not close enough, and he had a hand on Geralt’s chest, over his heart. “I dare say,” Regis murmured, eyes dark and intent, “You’ve rather enjoyed that, haven’t you?”

Geralt opened his mouth, and let out a breathless laugh. “Yes,” he said frankly, invitingly. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Regis smiled at him, and bared his fangs. Geralt felt his feet lift from the floor and gave a surprised yelp, Regis grinned at him. Geralt locked gaze with the vampire, and lifted an arrogant, defiant brow; he twisted his thighs and gave a forceful shove, enough to dislodge the iron-grip Regis had on him. Regis backed a step, surprised, then his irises turned almost completely black; Geralt grinned back at him. He feinted half a step when Regis charged, but Regis knew him too well; he was caught in the half-turn and Regis locked his arms in a steeling embrace, pressing him face-first into the wall.

“Didn’t I tell you to walk away,” Regis breathed in his ear, voice dark and intimate, “my dear Witcher?”

Geralt bared his teeth in a half-grin and struggled to get free, but it was futile. Regis’s body was steel and ice, and kept him locked firmly in place. He touched his foreheads to the wall, and shivered when he felt Regis’s hand roam down his torso.

“Always charging headfirst into things you couldn’t begin to understand,” Regis murmured, and he sounded distant, far away.

“Always insult your bed partners this way?” Geralt shot back without much heat, and inhaled sharply when he felt blunt teeth bite at his shoulder blades. He was painfully hard now.

“I see,” Regis said, with feeling. “My dear Witcher, have you always…?”

“Once or twice,” Geralt said. “It gets boring with just me and Roach, you know.”

“Hmmm,” Regis said, “I’m not sure if I like being compared to a horse.”

Geralt opened his mouth and Regis made an agonised noise. “No, not a single _riding joke_,” he said, and Geralt laughed; the short, giddy sound turning into the rasp of a moan when Regis’s hand followed its path and found what he was looking for.

“My, aren’t we eager,” Regis said, almost lazily. He undid Geralt’s trousers with assured and deft fingers, and leisurely palmed over Geralt’s tented shorts. His arm was slung casually over Geralt’s torso and he had his free hand over Geralt’s chest. Geralt could feel himself thudding against both of his hands.

“Haven’t got all night,” Geralt said, gruffly, and Regis hummed.

“I rather think we do,” Regis said. A hand came up to cradle at his face, and Geralt instinctively leaned towards it, nudging it. Regis laughed, soft. “Oh, my dear Geralt,” he said, adoringly. He inhaled again, deeply, and his voice turned silky, dangerous once more. “What am I going to do with you,” he said.

Geralt gasped when he felt a tendril of pleasure, disembodied and seemingly entirely foreign in origin, wind through his body. Regis traced a light shape over his shorts, still not gracing his achingly cock with any substantial force or touch, and Geralt bucked his hips involuntarily.

Regis chuckled. “I could make you come,” he said, voice low and dark and full of promise, “Just like this.”

Another bolt of pleasure shot through him, white-hot and indistinct, and Geralt panted; it at once familiar and good and painful and _too much_and _not enough_, unlike anything he’s ever felt before.

“Or,” Regis continued impassively, “Would you prefer to be filled up, and brought to the point of no return, so I can watch you become hopelessly undone?”

The thought of Regis talking dirty has never even occurred to Geralt before, but now the desire was burning white-hot all over and he whined, feeling every nerve ending on fire. He jerked his hips futilely against Regis’s hand.

“As you wish, my dear Witcher,” Regis murmured, and a disorientating second followed; Geralt was carried by the strong current again across an impossible distance in the room, and fell breathlessly onto the bed. Granite-grey mist brushed all over him, translucent, semi-corporeal and shapeless, yet the touch was anything but. Geralt felt a cool current of air wrapping around his cock, pressure against his perineum, and Regis rematerialised on top of him again, and the vampire was _floating_.

Geralt swallowed. He always loved sex with sapient monsters and sorceresses, because of how… unorthodox they can be.

Regis watched him, a knowing smirk upon his lips. Geralt reached out and tried to pull him closer, but the vampire remained still, a fingerbreadth away, utterly immovable. Regis cocked a brow, and Geralt growled.

“Show off,” he muttered, and tried to lean forward on his elbows. Regis allowed them to meet with a deep, filthy kiss, yet when Geralt tried to grind their bodies together, he felt the vampire hover just another inch higher. Regis pushed him back easily with a finger — a finger! — and hummed, sliding his hand over Geralt’s shirt. He met Geralt’s gaze, and smiled sharply; Geralt looked down just in time to see sharp talons piercing open his shirt in a single precise, clean strike.

Geralt’s cock twitched violently.

Regis smiled rakishly at him.

Seconds later, Geralt found out just how much control Higher Vampires had over their fine motor functions. Regis roamed his hands everywhere, yet he did not _touch_, the phantom sensations lighting up every nerve ending as he went. No matter how much Geralt writhed and squirmed, he remained a hairbreadth out of reach, and Geralt growled in frustration.

“Impatient, are we?” Regis murmured against his lips, and the weight of the vampire came crushing down upon him, and Geralt groaned in appreciation. At least Regis was not unaffected — he could feel a similar bulge pressed against him, and he was more than eager to remove the last piece of clothing between them.

“Are you —” Geralt’s breath hitched, as his hand finally found its way into Regis’s underwear and had a good feel, “fucking kidding me — ”

“Still disappointed?” Regis said, a mischievous glint in his eye, as he leaned over Geralt on both hands.

“What — what is that,” Geralt said, “Come on, lemme see — ”

Regis pressed him back onto the mattress with his forearm again, easily, casually, without effort. Geralt both loved and hated how much he got off on that: the effortless power, the casual dominance.

“Manners, my dear Witcher,” Regis admonished, and Geralt rolled his eyes. After all, Witchers were nothing but uncouth creatures.

“Alright,” he said, lying back and crossing his arms behind his head. “May I _please_suck your cock, Regis?”

Regis’s hand paused momentarily.

“What’s the matter,” Geralt purred, feeling smug and satisfied, “Don’t you want to fill me up? Watch me choke? Make me _undone_so I forget my own name?”

Regis made a pained noise. When he surged to meet Geralt face to face, his eyes were black as pools, and a reddish glint shone in them like embers in the early morning campfire. His fingers dug painfully into Geralt’s ribs, and he has, Geralt realised, literally forgotten to breathe.

“I do so very much wish,” Regis said slowly, misting instantly and reappearing to straddle Geralt by the face, “to shut you up so thoroughly that you can remember no one’s name but mine.”

Geralt smiled with his eyes and opened his mouth pliantly. Regis pressed two fingers along his jaw and slid in, keeping his head in place so that Geralt could not look but simply _feel_, and pushed. Geralt’s breath stuttered, as he tried to accommodate the sheer size and shape of the thing, and he was sure he would have gagged if not for his Witcher mutations. Regis was gazing at him with narrowed eyes, something intense and almost predatory in them, and watched him trying to swallow with a hint of a smile. Geralt was so hard he could feel precum dripping all over his balls. He tried to reach down, to palm at his own cock, but a rough jerk stopped him in his tracks; Regis grabbed both his wrists easily and pressed them effortlessly against the headboard. Geralt moaned. He was going to explode.

Time became an indeterminable thing. Geralt could feel Regis watching him, closely and almost feverishly, but everything else slowly faded into a pleasurable haze of nothing but feeling. Regis had exceptional self-control. He almost made no sound, except long inhales and small sighs when Geralt tried to suck or swallow, and kept pressing open-mouthed kisses to Geralt’s palm and wrists; Geralt felt giddy and content to be both used and revered like this, just like this.

Geralt smelled pine oil before he opened his eyes. Regis had misted out of his clothes at some point, and was smirking at him again; the vampire poured a liberal amount of oil onto his palms and rubbed them to warm it up.

“Regis,” Geralt sighed, for a lack of better things to say.

“My dear Geralt,” Regis answered with a smile, and twisted his hand on Geralt’s cock. Geralt jutted his hips wildly upwards — the oil set a feverish burn on his skin, and tingled to make his toes curl.

“Wha,” he said breathlessly, and Regis chuckled.

“One of my more popular products,” Regis said lightly. “The effect is pleasing, I trust?”

“Regis, you _bastard_,” Geralt said with feeling. “Get in here.”

Regis pushed into him with the same leisurely, casual and effortless grace that he did everything else, which drove Geralt mad. He still wasn’t able to get a close look at Regis’s cock, but felt — ridges? He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to relax around the shape. The oil made everything burn, and his balls were surely on fire now, and Regis kept pressing against his prostate leisurely and unhurriedly and rubbing at that sensitive spot just below the head of his cock, and Geralt was going to — going to —

Regis’s hand pulled in a long, languid move, and the higher function for Geralt’s brain stuttered to a halt. He was distantly aware of spurting powerfully onto his own chest, and Regis inhaling in that insanely attractive animalistic way, and every muscle in his body went soft, yielding.

When he came to, Regis was still watching him, hilted deep and still, patient, waiting for Geralt to remember how to breathe.

“How are you — how are you not — ” Geralt said, incredulous and breathless, “Regis, I swear — ”

“Oh, but I am,” Regis replied, low and dark, “My dear Geralt, you have no idea how much I am.”

Geralt focused his eyes. Regis’s irises were blown wide and his corneas were streaked with red, and he was practically _vibrating_. Power and control thrummed in his form and tightly controlled, almost pained expression, and his eyes were burning bright, feverishly bright.

“Okay,” Geralt exhaled. “Okay.” He took Regis’s hand and licked the insides of his wrist, and watched Regis shudder violently.

“Thought so,” he murmured. He pulled Regis’s hand towards him and lapped, tasting herbs and oil and his own semen, and watched Regis’s eyes flutter closed; he leaned upwards and licked into the vampire’s mouth.

“Let go,” Geralt whispered against Regis’s lips. “Give it to me, Regis, and let go.”

Regis made a broken, almost inhuman noise at the back of his throat, and he pushed in further, and oh fuck, is that a _knot_? Geralt’s breath faltered as Regis’s hips snapped into him with more force, uncoordinated and with decidedly less grace, and by gods he felt better. He canted his hips to meet the thrusts, and hissed when his oversensitive cock rubbed against the soft curl of hair on Regis’s abdomen.

“Geralt,” Regis whispered, “Oh, my dear Geralt,” his eyes shone brightly in the candlelight. His mouth moved and Geralt had to strain to hear him murmur in a language he did not understand; Vampiric, maybe? But Regis’s expression told him everything he needed to know. Regis growled and ran a hand through his hair, falling forwards and baring his teeth, and Geralt understood; he bared his throat in reply.

Regis made a pained noise.

“I want this,” Geralt said, “Regis — ”

Regis dived, but only blunt, human teeth met his flesh, and Geralt hissed: the pain was pleasurable nonetheless. Regis snapped into him again and again, kissing and biting his neck, his Adam's apple and the underside of his jaw, and Geralt was quickly hard again, his cock aching and wanting, bouncing heavy against his belly.

Regis pressed a hand against his forehead and snaked the other hand around his cock. He bit down again and Geralt cried out — he was sure the bite didn’t break skin, but his body suddenly engulfed in a torrent of pleasure so strong his vision whited out near the edges. He grappled blindly at Regis, who locked him firmly in place again with his thigh, and _shoved_; and Geralt had never come so fast or so hard before in his life.

Time lost its meaning again for a while. He was distantly aware of Regis climaxing, or maybe that was him again; the white-hot burn of pleasure and desire bounced back and forth and made his body sing.

“Nnngrrgh,” Geralt said, eloquently, when he felt Regis carefully extract himself.

Regis laughed quietly. “Quite,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s drooping eyelids.

“Didn’ disappoint,” Geralt mumbled lazily, looping an arm around Regis’s body, and pulling him back close. Their bodies were sticky and everything was a mess, but it was also exactly how he wanted to be for the time being.

Regis snorted against his chest. “That is heartening to hear,” he said.

“Hey.” Geralt stroked Regis’s hair. Regis smelled like sex and perfection.

“Mmm,” Regis replied. He sounded sleepy, but cognisant.

Geralt thought about what he wanted to say, but kept coming up empty in words. Regis raised his head to look at him, and his expression softened by degrees.

“Oh, my dear Geralt,” he said, voice soft and full with feeling. “I know.” He kissed Geralt reverently. “I know.”

Geralt fell asleep with dreams of moonlit herbal gardens and warm campfires.


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt woke with a start. Aside from the pleasant aches and pains that one got from a remarkably vigorous round of bedroom activity, he was not feeling particularly worse for wear. Of course Regis had shown restraint, Geralt thought. He was not even remotely lightheaded, and didn’t even feel the need to down a Swallow. He was even in a clean shirt, which he didn’t remember having, or changing into. The fit is on the snug side, but it carried Regis’s scent. Geralt closed his eyes and inhaled, smiling to himself.

He sat up, and found the cottage empty. There was food on the table — roasted rabbit and vegetables, and Geralt snorted with amusement; trust Regis to find time to hunt and forage while dodging a round-the-clock assassination attempt by his brethren.

He walked closer to the table, and noticed a piece of parchment tucked beneath the plate.

It was folded twice, carefully, way too long to be a brief message if the sender intended to be back momentarily, and Geralt’s heart sank.

_Dear Geralt,_it began, and Geralt cursed with feeling. He had seen enough of these letters to expect what was to come. The letter was written in the unmistakable hand of Regis, and it bore the same wistful air as the one that Geralt found on the bedside table of Corvo Bianco, which Geralt had come to realise was an air of finality:

_Dear Geralt,_

_Forgive me. I did not expect I would see you again — indeed, there are a great many things I never expected from you, and nevertheless still received. Words cannot begin to describe my fondness for you, my dear Geralt, and what last night meant to me. By now you have no doubt have figured out that I have misled you again, and it gives me great pain — but I trust you too will find in your heart to believe me when I say it is for the best. I made my choice with you long ago, and again at Tesham Mutna, and I still stand by it. I will always stand by it. _

_As I said, I have many regrets in all the years that I’ve walked this earth, but meeting you is never one of them. Sentiment; or perhaps foolishness — not wishing to have one last regret, with you, my dear Geralt — last night was borne out of your selflessness, and my selfishness. For this, I also ask your forgiveness. But I cannot bring myself to regret the decision, and I hope you will remember it fondly too, in the years to come. _

_It has been an honour being by your side, my dear Witcher. _

_Yours dearly devoted,_  
_Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy_

Geralt set down the letter. Something white and hot was unfurling in his chest, and the world had narrowed automatically down to his Witcher senses — the ink still fresh enough to be smeared with Geralt’s finger, so Regis couldn’t have gone far; the parchment smelled of cinnamon, wormwood and an assortment of healing herbs, with a hint of rosemary he’d used to roast the rabbit; faint, but traceable nonetheless. He leapt out the window following it, running methodically through the forest to higher ground.

He heard the commotion before he saw the gathered shapes on top of the hill, and years of Witcher training automatically kicked into gear. Geralt ran to the shaded, downwind part of the woods and crept towards the hooded shapes; he counted ten, twenty, thirty-five. The hooded figures stood in a circle, and he could see Regis being surrounded in the middle. Regis looked calm, and he was saying something, but the shrill voice of a bruxa shouted over him:

“… One of his own!” The bruxa shrieked, “His blood brother, the one who gave his own blood to save him from a pile of mud and bones!”

Regis said something in reply but it was too far for Geralt to hear. It did not seem to appease the crowd, however; in fact, the crowd tittered and several vampires hissed, evidently deeply offended.

One of the hooded figures standing at the front raised a hand. Another figure stepped forward, and took off their gloves. Geralt saw the reflection of the sun in the extended claws, but Regis only remained on the spot, head bowed. He was not moving, not defending himself.

Then Geralt suddenly understood.

This was not a duel — this was an _execution_.

Geralt felt hot and cold all over, like being plunged into the Yaruga in the deepest depth of winter and then thrust into the furnace in Novigrad; something incandescent was threatening to claw out of his chest. He uncorked a vial of Black Blood with his teeth and vaguely saw another figure step into the centre of the circle — a short woman judging by size, if Higher Vampires could be judged by sizes — and she spoke with a strange ethereal voice that travelled without effort, and Geralt knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was one of the Elders that Regis had warned him about. She didn’t sound like a recluse as the one in Toussaint, but there was something about her demeanour that radiated authority and unbridled power, and Geralt’s medallion vibrated madly against his chest.

“Emiel, you disappoint us,” The Elder said. She sounded infinitely bored. “You have driven many of our own into bloodlust. You risk exposing our entire community to humans.” She spat out the last word as if it were a fly caught in her throat.

Regis said nothing.

“Your defense,” the Elder continued, “Is piteous.” She paused, and cocked her head. “What kind of Higher Vampire,” she said slowly, almost curiously, turning just a fraction of an angle towards where Geralt was hiding, “kills a blood brother…for just… a friend?”

Geralt froze. Regis’s jumbled, uncharacteristically ineloquent prose floated to the front of his mind: _not wishing to have one last regret, with you… last night was borne out of your selflessness, and my selfishness… _

Oh, but Regis was a fool.

Geralt sheathed his sword and walked out into the clearing. “Not just a friend,” he said.

The crowd hissed, and several lesser vampires extended their claws. Regis made a strangled sound upon seeing Geralt, and even had the audacity to glare at him: _what are you doing,_the look said, _this is suicide — _

Geralt stared back and shrugged. _Wouldn’t have escaped the Elder’s attention anyway,_he glanced at the short woman, who had been observing them with dispassionate interest. When their eyes met, the woman’s expression fell back into that of supreme boredom, borne out of years of too much experience which she enjoyed too little; and she smiled humourlessly at both.

“Ah, and the said friend arrives,” the Elder said.

Regis started to say something in Vampiric, fast and fervent, and the Elder looked even more bored.

“Then it is simple,” she said, and unfastened her hood.

A strange aura filled the circle immediately, not unlike the opening of a portal, only there was nowhere to travel to; the only thing moving was the silvery green hair that seemed to flow from the Elder’s shoulders, divinely, endlessly. Geralt could not avert his gaze. He was distantly aware of a strange hush that had fallen over the vampire crowd. His medallion danced against his collarbone, and he tried to desperately to focus on Regis’s breath and heartbeat, slow and steady, slow and steady.

The Elder reached into her hair and stroke leisurely, twice, and her fingers plucked something out of her locks — Geralt blinked, and just like that, the aura was gone, and the spell was broken.

The black-hooded executioner stepped forward and took the item from the Elder’s hand, and offered it palm up to Regis. It was a curved blade, carved with intricate runes, with a long groove in the middle.

Regis visibly blanched. Geralt did not think the hunted vampire could become any paler, yet he did; all colour had drained from his face.

“You know our custom,” the Elder sighed out, as if impatiently reading from a scroll, “A choice, Emiel.”

Geralt’s finger twitched towards his potion belt.

The Elder cast a lazy glance at him, and Geralt felt his entire body snap-frozen in place: he realised with a horrible certainty that the Elder could defeat him without even lifting a finger. She didn’t even need eye contact to mesmerise him, if indeed that is what pinning him to the ground — he couldn’t move, couldn’t take a deep breath, couldn’t even turn his eyes.

Beside him, he heard Regis inhale.

“No,” Regis said. His voice was soft, but there was more than a hint of steel in it.

“Kill the Witcher,” the Elder continued in an entirely disinterested voice, as if she did not hear what Regis said at all, “And your debt to your brethren is considered repaid.”

Geralt struggled fruitlessly against the magical binding. It was clear what the other choice was.

Geralt could not see Regis, but he knew exactly how the vampire would’ve looked. He could hear the wistful smile in the gentle voice, and could feel adoring but sad eyes fall on his immobile form.

“I have made my choice.”

Everything happened too fast. Geralt felt the oppressive power withdraw at the same time as Regis reached for the blade; his silver sword sang as it jumped from his back to his hand, but Regis’s inhuman speed was quicker. He reached for the blade just as Geralt made a swipe to knock it from the executioner’s hand. The executioner immediately misted, making Geralt slice through air, but the curved blade bounced off and it grazed Geralt’s shoulder. A disproportionate amount of blood spurt forth from what should have been a surface wound; he heard Regis gasp.

“Geralt,” Regis began, pained and vehement, and Geralt felt a strange calm wash over him: he knew, at that precise moment, with crystal clarity, that this was it; he was staring at his fate.

“Regis,” Geralt answered patiently, even as the crowd of lesser vampires shrieked and drew closer to them. “No Witcher ever died in his bed.”

Regis made a strange, choked sound, and Geralt turned to smile at him.

“They will honour the custom and let you go,” Regis whispered, eyes wide and pleading and afraid, “Geralt, I beg you.”

“No,” Geralt formed the syllable slowly, smiling still; he felt the moment Regis realised what he was about to say. “I have made my choice, too, my dear Regis.”

Regis’s hand was shaking minutely. His eyes were almost completely black, a desperately open expression on his face, full of despair, fondness, resignation, and longing. Geralt felt drawn to him, inexplicably, and his feet moved of their own accord; it took him a disorientingly long second to realise that their foreheads were touching, somehow, against the madding crowd, and Regis was smiling too.

“How long do you think we will last,” Geralt whispered.

“Oh, five, ten minutes,” Regis said nonchalantly. “If the Elder does not dirty her own hands.”

“Better make it count then,” Geralt breathed, and pressed his lips to Regis’s, even as his hand closed over a bottle of Black Blood. “And I meant what I said, Regis,” he murmured against Regis’s lips, “Not just a friend.”

Regis smiled, and gently bit his lip.

Apart from Dunn Tynne, Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he fought alongside Regis at length, yet it felt as if they always did this practiced dance. More than once he felt, rather than saw or heard, Regis’s need for defensive cover, and he reacted instinctively with his sword and bombs; and more than once he found Regis’s claw slashing away at the arm of a bruxa or an alp who managed to get close. He pirouetted, feinted and dodged; their bodies brushed against each other, pushed against each other, and protected against each other. The dance of swords and claws lasted considerably more than ten minutes. Geralt’s ears were close to bursting from the shrills of the bruxae, alps and mulas, and his armour felt it was just recovered from the bottom of a lake. Whether it was blood, sweat or something else, he did not care. He knew his sword arm would give out eventually, and Regis would falter; it would be easy to throw them both on the ground then, and deliver the killing blow. Yet he fought on.

He could not remember how long he went on for, but suddenly he found the silence deafening. His leg gave out before his arm did, and he fell to the ground, barely holding himself up by the hilt of his sword; he tried to turn to find Regis, but found himself unable to move again.

A pair of black boots appeared in his line of vision, and the executioner cupped his jaw with a gloved hand. Geralt saw, to a sense of calm horror, that all of the Higher Vampires were still standing, robes intact and not a hair out of place, a few paces away — they did not involve themselves in the fight with the lesser, intelligent vampires. The Elder was still regarding them with a bored kind of indifference, as if they had only taken a momentary leave to discuss the weather. She lifted his eyes briefly, and the executioner pulled out the curved blade again.

Geralt watched the blade glisten with his blood with a flat, bitter sort of emptiness. The monster in his stomach, however, began to wrestle when the executioner stepped aside from him and knelt down; instinctively, Geralt started to struggle against the binding magic, to no avail.

He heard the smooth, sickening sound of knife slicing into skin. Regis was quiet, too quiet, and Geralt blinked; hot angry tears stung his eyes. He felt himself brimming with rage, with despair and dread, a vast, all-consuming emptiness rising from the earth to swallow him whole —

Then the Elder sighed.

“As I said, Emiel,” she drawled, flicking the blade onto the grass just behind Geralt, where Regis was being held. From the corner of his eye, Geralt could only see that the runes on the blade were pulsating. “What kind of Higher Vampire kills a blood brother for _just a friend_?”

The executioner held up Geralt’s head again, and the Elder’s face came into his view. She was not looking at Geralt, but somehow, her voice felt it had wormed its way into Geralt’s head:

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy,” The Elder said, her voice taking on a strange ringing and inhuman quality, “You have chosen your blood, and your blood has chosen. You are pardoned for your actions against Dettlaff van der Eretein, for the blood bond has spoken. You are free.”

The pressure binding him released suddenly again, and Geralt fell face forward onto the grass unceremoniously, gasping for breath. He was distantly aware of several clouds of mists shooting up to the sky and disappearing, but he could not move a muscle.

Behind him, Regis groaned.

“Explain to me,” Geralt rasped, feeling like his heart was going to explode for ten different reasons, “in two sentences or less, what the fuck just happened.”

Regis tapped his hand against Geralt’s leg. “I’m going to need at least five,” he said weakly.

Geralt flopped back onto the grass and laughed. He turned to face Regis, who had his eyes closed, and a small scar on the side of his face was rapidly closing.

“It was inordinately fortunate,” Regis began slowly, “that you did not imbibe the Black Blood prior to barging into the tribunal.”

“Execution, you mean,” Geralt said.

Regis lifted an eyebrow but didn’t counter him. “The blade,” he said, wincing as he touched his cheek.

“What was it?” Geralt asked.

“To put simply,” Regis said, “It is an ancient Vampiric blade capable of killing High Vampires.”

“But it didn’t,” Geralt said.

“No,” Regis agreed. “Because it can also detect blood bonds. Please, Geralt, I will need at least fifty sentences to explain what those are.”

Despite himself, Geralt snorted. He could feel Regis smiling faintly, before the vampire continued:

“You will no doubt remember that Dettlaff gave me his own blood in order to nurture me back to health. He and I became blood brothers in the most literal sense — his blood flows in mine,” Regis said. He fell silent for a while, then inhaled. “When you offered me your blood freely and willingly…” Regis said, soft, “Some of your blood now also flows in mine.”

Regis slowly blinked open his eyes. He seemed to be considering the next words carefully. “Believe it or not, Dettlaff bore you no ill will towards the end,” he said, low. “I could feel it… be certain of it. When our blood mixed on the blade… his blood did not reject yours.”

Geralt’s eyebrows jumped. “Are you saying,” he said, slow, “that Dettlaff’s blood told the Elder that he didn’t hate me for killing him?”

“In its crudest form, in two sentences or less, yes,” Regis sighed. “And also, no. Blood brothers can be formed… but blood bonds are exceedingly rare. It surpasses all else in the Vampiric code of honour… no one could challenge it.”

Geralt propped himself up on an elbow to look at Regis, and smiled. “Lost your eloquence there again, Regis.”

Regis huffed, but gave him a small smile in return. Geralt felt strangely elated, light and happy, like his entire being was kept afloat in the clouds. He didn’t truly understand what Regis was talking about, but a gut feeling told him he would find out, sooner or later.

A long but comfortable silence ensued, and it appears neither of them felt the need or inclination to move. Wind rustled in the leaves and the tall grass swayed beside them; in the distance, a drowner wailed.

“The blood bond is,” Regis began softly, just as Geralt was close to dozing off, “Revered.” Geralt glanced at him, and Regis appeared pensive, deep in thought. “It is… compatibility. And… resonance.”

Geralt waited, but no more was forthcoming. Regis inhaled, and suddenly huffed out a small laugh. “In two words or less,” he said wryly, glancing at Geralt with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Geralt couldn’t help but grin. “Real proud of you,” he said, aiming for sarcasm but hitting surprising sincerity. Regis’s eyes softened perceptibly.

“Oh, my dear Geralt,” he sighed. “Once again I have your enormous heart and reckless head to thank.”

“Proud of me too, I see,” Geralt said, crinkling his eyes.

“Exceedingly,” Regis said with candour. “This day turned out rather differently than I imagined.”

“You mean you don’t usually abandon your bed partners in the morning?” Geralt teased, raising a brow.

Regis grimaced. “That is — yes, Geralt, I never — I did not think — ”

“_That_was disappointing, by the way,” Geralt said seriously.

Regis closed his mouth and gave him an annoyed glare. Geralt chuckled and kissed him. Regis relaxed into his embrace and lapped gently at Geralt’s split lip, and Geralt could feel the pain in his body lessen by degrees.

“So what now?” Geralt asked. He felt warm and contented all over. “You are a free vampire again.”

“Now? A bath,” Regis said. “And some food. I’m ravenous.”

“Maybe some hooch?” Geralt asked, unable to keep the smile out of his voice.

“Oh yes,” Regis sighed as he sat up finally with a wince. “A bottle or three.”

“Just like old times,” Geralt said.

Regis ducked his head briefly. “Geralt,” he said, and Geralt knew that voice, that quiet unease; he raised a hand to forestall it.

“About that discussion of self-sacrifice,” he said.

Regis pulled a face. “Must we?”

“Would you prefer to wait till we are back in Corvo Bianco? Or the cemetery,” Geralt said. “Or maybe a fire by the road, I don’t mind where.”

Regis’s brows drew together, and Geralt watched him take a fraction of a second longer than usual for him to understand the unspoken question. Regis swallowed. When he looked up, his black eyes were shiny with emotion.

“I had never dared to dream,” he said softly. His throat worked. “I…”

Geralt waited, and Regis only smiled wistfully. “Oh dear,” he said. “I’m losing my eloquence again.”

“I’m beginning to appreciate these moments,” Geralt said, unable to keep the smirk out of his voice, and suddenly Regis misted in a move that was entirely too fast and caught Geralt by surprise.

Regis rematerialised on top of Geralt, elbows propped up at the side of his head, locking him down with a gaze that suddenly made Geralt feel he was being set on fire. “Are you absolutely certain,” Regis whispered, an echo of a question from last night.

Geralt lifted an eyebrow, and yanked Regis into another kiss.

“Witchers,” he said after a long while, with his hands in Regis hair and seeing his reflection in Regis’s eyes, “Are not one for rhetoric, as you may have noticed…”

Regis bared his teeth and Geralt felt a delicious shudder run through him. “Ever so,” Regis said agreeably, “I’m beginning to appreciate these moments too.”

Their foreheads touched, and Geralt felt a deep, thrumming sense of contentment in the core of his being. Resonance, he thought.

He needed to ask Regis about _everything_, but he had time. They had time.

“Could get used to this,” he murmured, and felt Regis smile against his lip.

“I would dream of nothing else,” Regis murmured, and Geralt allowed himself to forego rhetoric once more.

**END**

_Lambert,_

_Tell Emhyr to fuck off with his armies, the problem’s been dealt with. _

_Geralt_

_PS. I can spare two bottles of Mandrake Moonshine, no more. Miss you too, you prick._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ship is so exquisite yet so small? I'm so on this boat. I want Geralt and Regis to travel the Path together and have amazing vampiric bonded sex and get their happy afters together. I will try to add to this boat fandom, paddle with me, y'all. 
> 
> Comments are much loved <3


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